Warriors Don't Cry (33 page)

I was so sad I could barely speak, but I was pretending everything was all right and that I was happy for her. What I really wanted to say was I miss you already, I love you like a sister . . . I don’t know what I’ll do without you. But that would sound too mushy, so I kept my thoughts to myself.

Suddenly she slumped down onto the bed amid all those beautiful clothes and her new luggage and started to cry uncontrollably. “I’m really sorry all this is happening. It’s going to make it hard for the rest of you.”

I tried to console her. “It’s not your fault, Minnijean.”

“I’ll miss you.” She embraced me. “I’ll miss riding home with you and playing records with you and . . .”

“Yeah, but look at where you’re going. New Lincoln High School is a famous place. Those are rich people you’re staying with. I’ll bet you get your own phone and maybe even a car. You’ll meet important people.”

“Do you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. But for the grace of God it might have been any one of us.” To distract myself from the tears welling up inside my heart, I began folding things to put in her suitcase. “If you don’t pack, I get to keep all these gorgeous things and go away and you’ll have to stay here in my place,” I teased.
WITH the announcement that Minnijean was definitely out, the segregationists went wild. The signs on the walls said: “All niggers go north.” An article in the newspaper announced hall patrols by federalized National Guardsmen would be eliminated, although they would remain in the building and make periodic checks. That announcement granted segregationists more permission to have a field day with us. The school days that followed were noted in my diary in terms of the particular indignities I suffered. Putting every detail down on paper would give God a chance to see for himself what was going on, I thought.

February 18, 1958.
A red-haired, freckle faced-girl, the one who taunts me in homeroom, keeps trailing me in the hallway between classes. Today she spit on me, then slapped me. Later in the day as I came around a corner, she tripped me so that I fell down a flight of stairs. I picked myself up to face a group of boys who then chased me up the stairs. When I told a school official about it, he said she was from a good family and would never do such a thing and I needed a teacher to witness these incidents if he were going to take any action. He asked me what did I expect when I came to a place where I knew I wasn’t welcome. He warned me to keep Minnijean’s expulsion in mind.
February 19
Andy again. He’s really beginning to frighten me. As I emerged from the cafeteria today, he walked right up, face to face, stepping on my toes so I couldn’t move for a long moment. He shoved me backward and then held a wrench up to my face. He waved it around and shouted all sorts of threats that he could do a lot of awful things to my face with it. My knees were shaking and I didn’t know what to do. I said, “Thank you.” His eyes grew huge. Quicker than the speed of light, I jumped away from him and ran. “Just think all night about what I’m gonna do to you tomorrow,” he shouted after me.
February 20
I got hit across the back with a tennis racquet. I managed to smile and say, “Thank you.” Andy said, “What did you say, nigger?” I repeated, “Thank you very much.” I spit up blood in the rest room. I felt as though someone had stuck a hot poker through my back, into my insides. I saw him several times during the afternoon, but I never let him see me cry, and I didn’t report it to anybody.
I think only the warrior exists in me now. Melba went away to hide. She was too frightened to stay here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ON Saturday, February 22, a day after the school board asked the court to halt integration, Minnijean left for New York. Even her departure was marred by a bomb threat that delayed her American Airlines flight. Waving Minnijean off at the airport was difficult for all of us. There were lots of reporters and photographers taking pictures for the newspapers. We had become somewhat accustomed to their presence after all those months, and we were quite friendly with the ones from the North. We called them by their first names and frequently had off-the-record conversations with them. But just this one time we were weary of their presence. It was a moment when we wanted to be alone with our pain. At first we simply ignored them, behaving as though they were invisible. Still, even on this very sad day, we couldn’t have them taking pictures of our tears—that would only be fodder for the segregationists. So we tried to pretend all was well.

 

That night I wrote in my diary:

My
dearest friend, Minnijean, left today. I couldn’t stop crying. People at the airport said we all looked very old and tired, for the battle must be getting harder.
I pray Minnijean will be happy. She deserves it . . . don’t we all?

 

 

The Little Rock School Board had now petitioned the federal courts to consider again the whole question of school integration, in light of its negative experience since September 3.

By the beginning of March, I had sunk into the state of mind you get into when you know you have to take castor oil and there’s no way out. I just did what had to be done, without discussing it or thinking about it. I would get up, polish my saddle shoes, bathe, get dressed, dump my bowl of oatmeal into the toilet so Grandma India would think I’d eaten it—but my nervous stomach wouldn’t have to eject it—and go to the war inside that school. I listened to shouts, to ugly names, while I smiled and said “Thank you.” I waited for a ride, came home, did homework, got to bed, and started over again the next day. I felt kind of numb, as though nothing mattered anymore.

I thought my routine must be like a soldier’s fighting in wartime. Only I was lucky enough to have weekends in another world. One day I was doing just that, thinking about my other world and about the headline I had seen that read, “IT’S LOVELY, SAYS MINNIJEAN OF HER NEW YORK SCHOOL.” What would it be like to have just one lovely day of school amid pleasant people who smiled when you looked them in the eye?

As I stood alone, outside the Sixteenth Street entrance of Central High, I was shivering against the cold, waiting for my ride home that Friday afternoon. I was immersed in fantasies about my quiet, safe weekend. My body was there, but my mind was somewhere else.

My 101st guard Danny had said, “When you let yourself lose your focus, you make big mistakes.” I suddenly realized that I had done just that, made a foolish mistake. The Sixteenth Street entrance was one of the most dangerous areas of Central High’s grounds. It was a place I would never have chosen to wait alone, had I been conscious of my action. It was an isolated spot with no teachers, principals, or guards keeping watch, but I was too weary to walk the two blocks to the other side where it was safer and where my driver expected to pick me up. I decided I’d be wiser to stand still and hope that the car-pool driver would figure out I wasn’t waiting in the appropriate place and would come around to this side of the building looking for me. So I said a little prayer and allowed myself to lapse deep into my thoughts once more.

Suddenly there was a voice in the distance, calling my name, jolting me from my thoughts. “It’s nigger Melba.” It was Andy’s voice shouting at me. My heart started beating fast. Where the heck was he? I looked to see how far off he was. He was more than a block away, coming up from the playing field with a group of his friends. They were walking fast, almost galloping. Even if I started running, I couldn’t out-distance all of them. I looked around frantically, searching for help.

“Hey, Melba, you gotta get out of here.” The second voice was much closer. I wasn’t alone. There was a sleek, muscular boy, about six feet tall, wearing a varsity jacket and a cap, with a bushy shock of blond curls peeking from beneath it. He was leaning against the passenger side of a 1949 Chevy parked at the curb, only a few feet to my left. Was he one of Andy’s friends, who’d come to corner me and hold me there? His face looked familiar to me. He resembled one of those big tough boys who got their kicks taunting me. But why wasn’t he coming toward me, shouting ugly words at me like the others?

My mouth went dry. My feet seemed bolted to the ground. My knees were shaking so badly that I doubted whether I could run. Where would I go? Andy and his friends were dancing about each other in a circle, huddling to decide how they would have their fun with me. One boy started to run back in the direction from which they had come. Another boy joined them. What were they going back to get, I wondered. A rope?

“Nigger, nigger on the wall, who’s the deadest of them all,” Andy shouted as he hesitated, waiting for his friends. Now, they were only about a quarter of a block away. “Stand still, don’t run, ’cause if you do, it’ll be worse for you,” Andy shouted.

What now? My mind scrambled to figure out what I should do.

“Melba,” the blond boy whispered my name, “listen to me. I’m gonna call you nigger—loud. I’m gonna curse at you, but I’m gonna put my keys on the trunk of this car. Get out of here, now. My name is Link, I’ll call you later.”

“But I can’t do that.”

“Get the hell out of here. . . . Andy’s gonna kill you.”

“But I can’t. . . . I . . . uh . . .” I stood there gasping for words. He’s up to something, I thought. Now I’m surrounded. Why doesn’t the car-pool driver come after me now . . . right now, please, God.

“You don’t have any choice,” he whispered. “Go!” I turned to see that Andy and his friends were only a short distance away. I wasn’t even sure I could make it to the car.

“If you don’t get out of here, you’re gonna get us both killed,” the blond boy urged.

“Hey, Andy, we’re gonna have us some nigger tonight.” I heard Link shout as he walked away from the car, toward them. I grabbed the keys and ran around quickly to open the door on the driver’s side. I hopped in and locked all the doors. By the time I turned the key in the engine, Andy was clawing at the lock, while the other boys popped off the windshield wipers, and tried to get into the passenger’s side. Link stood glaring at me with an anxious look on his face, spewing hate words just like them. I pressed down the clutch, shifted into first gear, and the car jumped forward. Andy was still running alongside, holding on to the door handle, but as I sped up, he had to let go. Even if that boy Link got me later for stealing his car, I was alive and on my way for now.

After a couple of blocks, when I could breathe a little easier, I craned to look around. I couldn’t see anybody following me. “Thank you, God,” I whispered, as I headed for home. “Thank you for saving me one more time.”

24

 

I GUNNED the engine of Link’s car and began moving as fast as I could without attracting too much attention. By the time I rounded the corner at Twelfth and Cross and headed for the backyard, I felt myself going out of control. The car careened into our yard. I was moving so fast that I knocked down the fence my uncle Charlie had begun to build around Grandma India’s flower garden.

 

Bolting from the car, I raced up to the back door; my heart was ticking like a time bomb. I looked around as I banged hard on the door. Maybe the police were sneaking up behind me, waiting to pounce. I thought of dumping the car someplace else . . . but where? Anywhere I parked, it would be noticed. In our closely knit neighborhood, everybody knew everybody else and especially who owned which car.

“Have you lost your mind, girl?” Grandma said, wiping her hands on her apron as she held the screen door open and peered into the backyard.

“What’s going on? Whose car is that?” She was stretching to see past me.

“Uh, it belongs to a school friend. Let me in.”

I motioned her to back away and then carefully latched the screen and locked the door behind me. Pulling the curtain back from the glass peephole in the door, I took one last look to see whether or not someone might be following me. I started to tell Grandma what happened.

“You mean to tell me that car belongs to some Central High white boy?” She was horrified. I tried to calm her as I explained, but the expression on her face turned from astonishment to fear. Suddenly she hurried to the linen closet and started frantically searching for something. She pulled out several torn and faded sheets and a whole bunch of safety pins. Dragging me with her, she rushed out the back door. We squared off the first sheet, holding its corners like we did to make the big bed in Mama’s room, and then pulled it across the hood of the car. “Maybe you’ll live to see tomorrow if we can hide this car from the police.” She motioned me to help her stretch the second sheet across the roof of the car.

“I s’pose you were stuck twixt the devil and the deep blue sea, child. You done your best, but we got us some real trouble now.” We rushed into the house and locked the door behind us.

When Mother Lois came home from teaching, she was just as upset as Grandma. After lots of questions and lots of pacing, she calmed down a bit.

“Well, maybe this isn’t so bad after all,” she said. “It’s been a while and nobody’s come to inquire about the car yet.”

Grandma put her hands on Mother’s shoulders and said, “Perhaps the boy was telling the truth. Who’s to say that he can’t be one of God’s good white people?”

“I suppose,” Mother said as her frown eased a bit. “Let’s assume for a moment that this boy wasn’t trying to trap you. How are you gonna get the car back to him without other people finding out about it?”

“Link said he’d call,” I replied, as I began to search for ways of returning the car if he didn’t. I surely couldn’t drive it back to school the next day. He couldn’t be seen in my neighborhood, and I dared not travel in his, especially not at night. Well . . . we would have to figure out a secret way. When the phone rang, I raced to pick up the receiver.